Holy

We visited the great-grandmas last Saturday. Mine fretted most of the time because, as my cousin C said, "So many men; so little time." We should all have her problems. Of course, she also stopped to praise my kids for their appetites, but I think it has more to do with her awesome cooking.

Husband's grandmother was a little tired but we didn't get around to seeing her until after 5 and she already had a full day at her seniors' group bingoing and cribbaging her 87-year-old heart out. We ordered a pizza and she solved the mystery of the big bang we heard the last time we were there. Apparently, one of our kids (Daughter later confessed to the Grande Dame) fell down the laundry chute from her bathroom linen closet. Luckily, Daughter fell on her bum onto a pile of laundry on top of the washing machine and no harm was done. What possessed her? I dunno. That's another mystery to solve, I guess.

Better than any chocolate that we could have received, Husband's eldest aunt gave him a Ziploc crammed with the letters she saved from Husband's mother over the years. We got back to my parents' place and spent hours reading them all. Oh. My. God. We read these letters and filled in between the lines with the stuff we know and, well, it was enlightening. Nice to know how she parented her kids, so if she ever has the balls to criticize me again, at the very least I can at least have a smug look. Oh, and there's no denying that Husband was conceived out of wedlock. Put it this way, if Husband didn't look so much like her ex-husband, I'd question his paternity. And I chose this family.

I still would, though. The big guy is putting the kids to bed right now. They've been putting off bedtime for an hour and I've let it slide because I've been sick off and on for a week now. Yeah, I fasted for Good Friday. I was puking my guts out.

Easter Sunday was spent at my parents' place. They dragged my ass to Mass, first telling me I had time and then not two minutes later, they're yelling at me for taking so much damned time getting Daughter's booster seat out of our van and into theirs. "We don't need it. We need to get to church now more!" "You want (Daughter) to go? Then you need the booster seat. It's the law!" More yelling at me for being such a feet-dragger, doing "everything half-assed", etc. Seriously. So I just said loudly, "How dare you talk to me that way in front of my child. You should know better and, oh yeah, what a nice way you guys started off this holiest of holy days! Good job." And then, like some freak, my mother says sweetly, "Oh look, honey! That house has all those nice Easter decorations." I knew that was my cue to forget everything that was said.

Anyway, after Mass, an old friend of mine from high school tapped me on the shoulder. The last time I saw him, he directed my aunt's funeral at the mortuary he manages. It was funny because he was all Mr. Funeral Director and then my middle sister and I got his attention and he became the little goofball he was in high school, all giddy and jokey. Anyway, it turns out the guy lives around the corner from my parents. It was weird to see him because as I was walking up for communion, I felt eyes on me and I thought, "Someone knows me here."

We got home and Mum and I got the big lunch ready. Actually, Mum had most of it prepared. She makes more of a fuss with Easter than any other holiday, including Christmas. She had new clothes for the kids, as well as figolli (jumbo Maltese Easter cookies) and a ton of plastic eggs filled with money and chocolates and notes to hunt for crackers and Dunkaroos and chips and stuff. She doesn't cook for Christmas but we had turkey and a ham for just my family and my parents. Thankfully, everyone had an appetite. Middle Child inherited his Uncle C's childhood habit of kinda moaning when he's enjoying his food. That got my mum's attention. "Are you alright, sweetheart?" He didn't even look up from his garlic roasted potatoes.

The kids waited until around 5 for their cousins to show. They played their hearts out, knowing we were going home soon. Of course, when we called them in, the girls pitched a fit. It was awful. She was still crying 15 minutes down the highway. Middle Child somehow fell asleep and Baby Boy just kept singing the Sith tune from Star Wars.

This evening, Daughter and I went to church for a first communion thing. I thought it was another meeting. Nope. It was a mass. Thankfully, at the last minute, I thought I should change her (and me) out of the grubby clothes. I just put on a white collared shirt with my jeans. Good enough. I put Daughter in a boho top and skirt. Good thing because most of the other kids were dressed nice. The priest asked a couple of questions, then said he'd give a loonie to anyone who could answer his tough question. Daughter got it (answer was "Passover" but her class just did a playfor the school last Thusday, so she had an edge). After, all the kids got a fresh loaf of baked bread. No wine though. That's waiting for me right now.

Coming Up For Air

I have a new baby girl.

For the last two weeks, and until the end of June, I am babysitting my friend's 12-month-old while she's back teaching. Bee is a sweet kid and Baby Boy gets along great with her. She already says a few words: bottle, Elmo, no, cookie and a few others that gets us through the day with few frustrations. Still, Baby Boy has this gift (of sorts) of mimicry; he can babble just like Bee in her voice's pitch. He did the same with his cousin out west. My own Rich Little.

Of course, taking care of Bee means that I can do nothing else around the house, including updating this. I hold her a lot so she can feel safe and loved while her two mothers are gone, and she appreciates it.

Yes, two mothers. And they're in their 40s. Bee is a bit of a miracle child, and I'm so conscious of that. We had a summer-like day on Thursday so Baby Boy and I took Bee outside and we all got pretty filthy. When her mum picked her up, she noticed that Bee's legs and feet had dirt on them. I started to apologize but my friend was so happy. "This means she's growing up."

Thursday night was a gift for Husband and I. My friend Jules and her husband offered to take all three of our kids from 3:30 so Husband and I could have a date night. The funny thing is that when she first made the offer, I just laughed and said, "Oh, it would never work." You see, she has two sons. K, in particular, is like a rock star in my house. Daughter and Middle Child compete for his attention and things can get pretty crazy. Jules's other son is autistic but, honestly, Baby Boy is much more of a handful.

However, she wouldn't take no for an answer and I knew she'd be able to handle any crises that came up. She is like the Fun Mom you wished you had. And everything went well. Of course, the party ended when Middle Child's eyes started to puff up from the pollen and, of course, he got all dramatic about it: screaming, crying, rubbing his eyes and walking around with them closed even if it meant bumping into walls and such. Cripes.

Jules and I have also been busy planning a fun fair for my kids' school's 50th anniversary. Get this: the head of the school board says to do it up really big, but our budget will be nada. In other words, make me look good without my help. Don't even get me started about that creep. I've had my run-ins with him before. Earlier, I went to a parent council meeting to basically beg for money, which I got. Although, I have to say I had help. My friend, the saddest girl to ever hold a martini, is the treasurer. When her kids came over to play, I showed her my plans and then asked if the council had the money. She was great and even spoke up for me at the meeting, as did two other friends who came specifically to side with me (as I learned later).

The two older kids got their report cards and they were glowing. Daughter got all "A"s except for 4 "B+"s (what is the proper way to write that?). Middle Child's report was all text, as is the case in the kindergarten years. He got words like "gifted", "talented", and stuff but also attached was a sheet requesting an interview. So Husband and I show up with Middle Child. His awesome teacher is there and then ... the principal walks in to take a seat. "You know it's bad when the principal sits in," I said to Jules. "No, he sits in for the special needs' kids' interviews. I guess (Middle Child) is special in another way!"

Anyway, I'm thinking, "Fuck. Go in grizzly bear mother mode. Protect your child." Granted, the boy has been fighting lately. Because he doesn't play with anyone in his class (he has waaay different interests), he hangs around older kids who, let's face it, don't want to be around a kindergartener. Would you? Things escalate. He gets angry and he lashes out. Earlier, one boy pinned him down so Middle Child kneed him in the nuts. For two years now, I've expressed my concern that he hasn't connected with anyone in his class. He's friendly. They're friendly with him, but nothing gels. And I've always known my child to have a temper, even as a newborn. Middle Child's teacher has tried what she could but nothing worked.

So here's the principal telling me stuff I already know. And then the grizzly mama came out. I complained that the disciplinary regulations at the school are not a one-size-fits-all thing. To send my son home because he fought is like a reward for him. He has no friends. He's above-average academically so classtime can often be an opportunity for him to show off. Going home after a fight? He's avoiding the problem! Why not set some things in place so you can prevent my kid from losing his temper in the first place? That's what we do at home. That there's no designated kindergarten area in the playground is a bone of contention too, but that won't change. And I've had this discussion informally with the principal before, don't get me wrong.

I suggested that they catch him doing "good" instead of "bad" all the time. How about extending what we do at home: if he gets seven checkmarks for "doing good" in a day, he gets a letter of the alphabet to spell out the word of a prize. The alphabet thing came from Jules. Works great. Currently, the kid is going for a Boba Fett Pez dispenser.

And how about arranging for a classmate to play with him before the bell rings? I will send him to school with some plastic binoculars and the teacher gives him a clipboard and pencil and he's to find things that start with an S or signs of spring or write down the names of the friends he can spy on through the binoculars. Well, wouldn't you know that Mumma is right. This is working out great. The teacher has run off copies of a chart that breaks down the day with a space for check marks and comments on what he's done to earn those checks. She's also bought him a huge plastic magnifying glass.

Possibly, the number one thing I have learned from the parents of a special needs child, the one thing Jules says many times, you have to be the fiercest advocate for your child. Don't leave it up to anyone else, no matter who they are. You, alone, are the one who knows him best. It seems so obvious but, scarily, I realize that I hadn't always done this.

And then all day yesterday, I had really icky pains all over. I ate nothing and remained stationary almost all day. Bad mother, I let the kids spend five hours watching TV and playing XBox while I convelesced. And where was Husband? Hmm, sunny day. Day off work. I'm home and obviously not going anywhere ... that sounds like GOLF TIME!

My Father-In-Law Looks Nothing Like Jeff Daniels

Actually, you can, indeed, live with someone for almost 20 years and still learn new things about them.

Husband and I rented The Squid and the Whale to watch when the kids were asleep. It's the story of a disintigrated marriage and how the family grapples with the divorce.

We were about 20 minutes into the movie. I'm sitting there thinking, "The parents are doorknobs. How could they hurt their boys like that?" I stretch my legs out on to Husband's lap and he absentmindedly starts tapping them. After a minute, he sighed, "This reminds me of my own parents' divorce."

We've always been pretty up-front about everything with each other, but his parents and all the crap that's associated with them are things he very seldom discusses. On one of our first dates, I had asked about his parents and he curtly said, "They're divorced. My mom remarried a guy nine years older than me and my dad is divorcing his second wife. And that's all I want to say about that, if you don't mind."

Since then, I don't touch that subject. Little by little, he tells me odd snippets of his childhood, mostly hidden within another story ("I think the last time I saw that movie was when I was visiting my mother in the hospital one Christmas...").

Needless to say, we continued to watch the rest of the movie in silence.

And They'll Know We Are Christians By Our Love

I like to think that I have a well-honed gaydar for a middle-aged soccer mom. It came from years of having primarily gay male friends, me being a fruit fly and all.

So when I first saw James Loney talk, I immediately thought, "He's a friend of Dorothy's! Wow, that could have jeopardized his safety and the amount of well wishes that came his way."

Sure enough, the local daily here ran a front page article confirming my suspicions about the Canadian who was held hostage in Iraq. The article went on about how the media didn't mention that Loney was gay and has a long-term partner. His family and friends feared that if his sexual orientation were made known to his captors, they would kill him for sure because homosexuality is punishable by death in Iraq.

Now I'm expecting letters to the editor about how people wasted their prayers on a sinner.

When the gay marriage legislation was brought up in Parliament, letters against it and homosexuality in general were printed every day for about two months around here. Of course, all I thought was how unchristian their attitudes were. Oh, they hid behind their bibles and all but, in this case, it will probably be so boldly redneck to say something disparaging now after local churches had prayer services for the guy who they were praising as a fine example of Christian humanity.

Woo-pee!

I think I can safely say that Baby Boy is out of diapers. Sound the trumpets!

We're still putting him in diapers at night. Sometimes he needs them; sometimes he doesn't. However, he wore underpants throughout the day since last Monday, with no accidents.

Of course, he's telling everyone he wears underwear now - the cashier at the grocery store, our neighbour, a kid at McDonald's.

And we did it without Pull-Ups (they're just 50 cent diapers) or anything available at this link.

Pay It Forward

So March Break has come and gone and, yet, I can say it wasn't much of a "break" for anyone.

Throughout the week, everyone but Husband had some kind of flu. Baby Boy seemed to get two waves of it. Daughter had the worst bout, as she was feeling ill for about five days straight. And, of course, the day before two of us came down with it, I had a friend's child over who brought it back to his house. Amazingly, my middle sister and her kids came to visit us on a good day and nobody there got sick.

Apparently, though, many kids had it during March Break too, or so I learned once the kids went back to school this past week.

And, to boot, I took Baby Boy to nursery school and notice a sign reading that there was one case of Fifths Disease prior to March Break. "What's that?" I asked one of the teachers. "It's when the child has a rash on the face, sometimes the body, that makes them look like they've been slapped."

And all that time, I thought Baby Boy had wind-chapped cheeks. Mind you, I found the Glaxal Base Cream to work...

Anyway, now that March Break is over, I'm ready for spring. I just woke up and was greeted by a vista of snow. There's always one weird snowfall late in the season around here. I hope this one is it.

We had an eventful week, though.

We are officially poor. Husband signed away everything to buy a building on the main drag so he can relocate the business. He's scared but happy. Really, it should be okay in the long run but we've cut back on tons for now. It won't affect the kids too much, but they did stop karate which was $140 a month.

For a brief period of time, I lost Daughter. Her class was at a first communion retreat at the parish hall which happens to be across the street from our house. Her teacher told me that she didn't need to come to school; just walk her across and meet the class there at 9:30. Was that ever wonderful, if you have any idea what it is like to get three kids and myself ready for school/work.

It was a Tuesday, when Middle Child also goes to school (he goes full day every Tuesday and Thursday and then alternate Mondays), so I went to pick the kids up. No Daughter. I went to her classroom and learned that the teacher let her cross the road and go home. No, she didn't wait to see if she got in the house (which she didn't because I am the only person in this town to lock my doors). No, no one noticed that there were no cars in the driveway either.

So I raced home, expecting to see her shivering on the porch. Nope. I checked the backyard. Maybe she's playing in the treefort. No. I quickly drove around the neighbourhood to see if she walked back to school. No.

Okay, calm down. Maybe she went to Husband's work. It's about a 10 minute walk for her, right downtown, but she may have done it. I'll catch hell if she's not there, but I have to call him, I thought. Then I'll call the police.

I picked up the phone and noticed there was a message. "Hi Mum. I'm at the neighbours. I came home early and you weren't there, so can you pick me up when you get this message? Bye!"

It turned out my neighbour was walking past the house to pick up her kids from school and noticed Daughter. She asked what was going on, to which Daughter explained and said that she'd just wait; that I'd be home soon. "No you won't. I'm walking you back to my house. My husband is there to take care of you." And they set her up with some apples and cheddar while she waited. They're Block Parents so they were totally cool with it, but, shit, I swear that house glowed in my eyes that day.

I brought them a Dairy Queen Treatza Pizza the next day.

Bitchiness is Hereditary

It straddles on the border of good taste, I know. However, I'm hoping my über Christian mum will like it well enough. I contimplated getting one for myself, digging the kitch value.

Yes, there's a solar light that shines from Christ's feet up to the face.

And on the other hand, this is the shirt she picked up for Middle Child from her sojourn in Texas to visit my cousin. I guess there's a reason why my mother has momentary bouts of nasty quips toward me (ie. "Your cousin has lovely decorating taste. Not like you"). Because what did I say when I first saw this shirt? "'Texas kicks ... Democrats?' You got my little boy a Republican shirt?" Of course, I'm sure she, and most people, would read it as "Texas kicks ass" but there's me trying out some high-brow humour and it fell flat.

Thankfully, she bought it in, I swear, a men's small, so Middle Child may never have the chance to wear it.

I would try to shrink it but Husband broke the washing machine last night while I went out to buy milk.

He decided to wash one pillow. The thing was banging loud enough to wake the dead. He went in to get a new toilet paper roll and noticed water all over the floor. He checked the tubes and they seem all connected so I called the repair guy this morning because it would sooo suck if I had to go to the laundromat. If it was the Sparkle Brite in Victoria with the fish 'n chips place across Oak Street, that would be fine. Barely.

Death and Taxes

My twin is dead.

Yes, Slobodan Milosevic died of an apparent heart attack in prison. Whatever.

I say he's my twin in jest, really. During one of her manic episodes, Husband's mother was listing all the ways I am an evil, ugly soul. Her words were like water drops running off a duck's ass, so I don't remember any of what she said except for the exclamation that I was "no different than Slobodan Milosevic." Niiiice. The small-town mother of three of her grandchildren and the Butcher of the Balkans. Yeah, and what a great physical resemblance, too.

It's just one of those things I'll look back at fondly until the day I, myself, die.

Speaking of dying, I had the weirdest conversation with my father yesterday when he and Mum visited. He took me aside and said, "I don't think it would be a surprise if I go before your mum. So I'm asking you, as the oldest, to watch over her finances when I die." He doesn't want her to be giving everything away and he wants me to be the one to look after that.

I shrugged my shoulders and said that I don't know if I would have that kind of power over her; that I couldn't stop her from doing anything she wanted to do with money that, legally, would be entirely hers. "I could make you and your sisters co-tenants of our will..." "Without Mum knowing? I don't think you can do that on a joint will, can you? Don't you think it would be better if you just talked to Mummy about how you're feeling? About your ideas with me and the money and stuff?"

That's when Mum walked in. "What's going on? What did you say?"

Crap. Change the subject. FAST!

"Oh, I was just starting to tell Dad that (Husband) bought a building for the business." I mean, it looks like the deal will go through, but I know Husband kind of wanted to break the news to Dad himself, more for his opinion because the "building" is really just an old house on the main drag about four doors down from his leased space.

I got "the look" from Husband for my actions but I also got a vision of eternal gratitude from Dad because, as I expected, Mum got all giddy and wanted to throw on her coat and check the place out right away.

Maybe I'm more convincing than I think I am.

Nature in More Ways Than One

Raccoon foreplay, apparently.
Dinner was served and I left the family to hunker down and watch the Oscars pre-game show up in the attic family room.

I looked out the window and saw these two raccoons on my next door neighbour's chimney. Cool, I thought. I'll call up the kids.

Then they started to mate. Middle Child wanted to know why the bigger raccoon was fighting the littler one.

Sometimes, You Have To Be Your Child's Best Friend

All this week, Middle Child hasn't wanted to go to school.

This is odd behaviour because the kid just loves learning. He has a crackerjack teacher, a nice bunch of kids in his class, and it's time away from his brother.

After many talks and some coaxing, I think the problem is that he feels he doesn't fit in. This was a problem last year, too. I volunteer to help in his classroom and I can see that he is friendly and other kids are friendly with him. The teacher is well aware of my concern and has gone above and beyond to foster friendships.

Then it all clicked yesterday.

The little girl I babysit was over yesterday afternoon. She's in Middle Child's class and they get along great. Part of the reason why I agreed to look after her was to help out her mother, a widow, but also to have a regular playdate for my kid. Anyway, she innocently asked me if Middle Child was going to Mackenzie's bowling birthday party on Saturday. Ugh, I thought. He wasn't even invited. The kicker is that he considered Mackenzie to be his closest school friend. I guess it was only going one way!

It has to be difficult for Middle Child. He isn't interested in sports, particularly team sports (which sucks because every single boy in his class plays hockey). He's very bright and in many cases is head and shoulders above the other kids in his class (mind you, the teacher discreetly gives him more challenging work). His interests aren't typical of kids his age. It's no wonder that by third recess, he's seeking out kids in Daughter's class.

I suggested that he should approach it from another direction; maybe try playing with the aforementioned girl. But he said she's different at school; that she doesn't want to be seen playing with a boy.

I am open to suggestions.

Right now, I'm just going to hug the little guy.

Adoration of the Sacrament: Praying and Preying

I'm locking my doors these days.

You do that when there was an attempted murder and abduction on your block.

I live across the street from a Catholic church. On Fridays from sunrise to Saturday's sunrise, they have what is called the Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. This is where they leave a blessed communion wafer up at the altar, thus meaning that the body of Christ is there, open for all to see. A handful of parishoners sign up to be at the church at all times; "You don't want Jesus to be alone," my mother says.

This past Friday at about 6:40 pm - not late - a woman was in the church alone when a man walked in and asked her for some coffee money. She told him she had none but instructed him how to find the priests.

He left but came back shortly with a big shard of glass and demanded the purse off the woman. After he found she truly had no money, he tried to take her. She managed to get away but he cut her on the back of her head. She called police and they found him at the park just over the bridge.

I talked to the pastor today about the incident. Apparantly, he was a drifter; not even from town nor had he any familial ties around here. "It doesn't shock me that someone would do that. What is shocking is that it would happen in our town," the priest said.

Hey, padre, if our county can be the number one crystal meth producers in Ontario, you can bet that there are a whack load of meth users too.

All the same, I wonder if the church is going to rethink the Adoration policy. I'm rethinking my own policy of allowing my children to play on the front yard.

Preparing to Say Goodbye to Superdiaperbaby

I think we turned a corner.

Since Thursday, Baby Boy has been using the potty more times than not. He still wants to wear diapers but, woo-hoo, I think he's only had six dirty nappies in four days. He even woke up dry on Saturday.

Mind you, I don't know how diligent I should be. He doesn't want to wear underwear or go commando, so I don't want to push my luck and have this be a "one step forward, two steps back" kind of exercise.

Speaking of shit, the federal government has a preliminary appointment of a new supreme court judge. Before the guy gets instated, MPs will get to ask him questions and then decide if he's an appropriate appointee.

Critics say this may lead to the American way, where it just ends up being another political game where whatever party has the majority will obviously approve of a judge that falls in line with their party's agenda.

Granted, this could very well happen, but I like the openness of it. Sure, we've elected some serious yahoos, but if the guy is some anti-choice, bigotted homophobe, wouldn't you like to know ahead of time?

Madonna, Don't Tell Me You Have Dishpan Hands Too!

Madonna told a reporter in London, "I must admit, I have to pat myself on the back. It's not easy to be married, to have a successful career, to have children." She was commenting on how difficult life can be being married to someone as ambitious as she is.

Whatever.

You think you have it rough, Madge? I just wonder, have you ever changed a diaper or mopped barf off the floor at 3 a.m. or is that the work of one of your round-the-clock nannies? Have you had to buy your family clothes or are you still relying on the freebies the scads of designers send you? Have you ever found yourself rushing to make it on time to pick up Lola and Rocco from school because of a meeting that ran late or that your minivan was stuck in traffic or because you ended up picking the slow line at the grocery store again? Do you and Guy have the money to treat eachother to date night every once in a while? I heard that's important, you know.

Yeah, you deserve a pat on the back, honey. Except when I give it to you, it'll be more like a shove into my seemingly bottomless laundry pile. Have you ever seen one of those before?

I'll Pass on That Steak For Now, Thanks.

Guess what movie we saw on Friday?

I think Middle Child drew an excellent Captain Jack Sparrow. He also drew a ton of skeletons.

It was practice for seeing the Body World exhibit at the Ontario Science Centre on Saturday with Baby Sister and her boyfriend. Middle Child couldn't have been keener. He wanted to see everything and wanted me to read every sign that accompanied the displays. There were tons of medical people visiting and a handful of them would interrupt us and answer Middle Child's questions (thank you ENT doctor from Buffalo, NY and the angioplasty nurse from McMaster-Chedoke Hospital in Hamilton).

He got to hold an adult brain as well as two livers (one diseased and one healthy). He had no qualms about viewing the pregnant woman display but had more interest in the embryos from weeks four to eight (thank you U of T medical student for the quick run-down on the neurological developments at each stage).

Daughter, on the other hand, got freaked out and left with Baby Sister. I had her calmed down initially, but other people's comments were sinking in to her and she started to walk around with her eyes shut, humming to herself.

She had the best time at every other part of the Science Centre - "That was funner than Wonderland!" - but in the car, she started to worry. "Does this mean I don't want to be a doctor?" We assured her that she has lots of time to decide what she wants to do when she's a grown-up and that, maybe in time, seeing real bones and organs won't disturb her any more. She said she was used to seeing these things covered in blood, like they're shown on TV, "but here they looked like zombie meat."

I didn't have the opportunity to get Baby Sister's boyfriend's take on it. He was a butcher.

Mother Nature is a Bitch

I am the picture of calm.

I am the picture of calm.

I am the picture of calm.

If I say it enough, will it be true?

The schools in the entire county are closed for the second snow day this scholastic year. Not too bad; pandemonium has only broken out now at nearly 10 am.

It started out as a slow burn when I asked Middle Child if he really wanted to go to the Body World exhibit tomorrow as planned. My sister emailed saying that Daughter told her he didn't want to go. As it turned out, she was trying to ditch her brother.

Now, Daughter is yelping and running around the room with Middle Child standing beside me calling her "poopy-head" and "stupid girl" and "stinky fish pizzahead".

Meanwhile, Baby Boy is rolling around in my just folded clean laundry, bare-assed naked, happy as a pig in sunshine because he used the potty twice this morning.

Now, I Must Clean

I was given some free tickets to a Carlos del Junco gig here in town (thanks Jules!) and took my baby sister. Not my kind of music, but I appreciated the artistry. Seriously, they were all supreme musicians with that wonderful ability to really tell a story out of their instruments. Baby sister loved the $4 beer and wine. Can't get that in the big city!

I had my middle sister and her family, as well as my parents and the aforementioned baby sister and her boyfriend over on Sunday to celebrate Daughter and Baby Boy's birthday. I was wondering why it felt like I didn't have enough food; that I was missing something. I was slapped with the answer this morning as I stared at the tubs of meatballs in Diana Sauce in the freezer. I now have three pounds of the stuff. I'm thinking meatball sandwiches tonight.

Baby sister's boyfriend gave all the kids rather big bags of candy. Middle sister's kids liked it well enough but my three tore right into the Pop Rocks, Bazooka Joe, Fizz, licorice, etc.

Candy, cake, cousins and gifts. It was a banner day at the house.

He Won't Grow Up To Be a Nutritionist

I give the kids the option to choose their birthday dinner. I thought Baby Boy would certainly choose McDonalds or something, but he didn't.

"I want crackers."

"Crackers?"

"Yeah, the fish ones."

"Anything else?"

"I can pick more? Okay, crackers and cinnamon rolls."

This Sucks

They're making vacuum cleaners in vibrant colours now. I came home with this one and Husband sighed, "Couldn't you have found a normal-looking one?" In all honesty, I could not.

I went to the store with Daughter. She wanted the one that was apple green with silver sparkles.

We saw Nanny McPhee two weekends ago with all the kids. It was Baby Boy's first theatre experience and he did okay; we just need to remind him about a quiet voice inside.

This weekend wasn't as much fun. We "visited old people" as Husband puts it.

We first hit his grandmother who was getting ready to celebrate her 87th birthday. She implored my kids to eat all of her food that was expiring soon.

Then we went to my grandmother's who had a wicked tikka masala ready for us. It was the first time she made it and it was the best I've ever ate. She told me her son (he's a jackass and I don't call jackasses "uncle") possibly has the beginnings of Parkinson's Disease. What goes around, comes around. I hope he suffers miserably and then dies alone.

We went to my parents' and, to our surprise, my sister's kids were there. My kids are really great about visiting people. They're very polite and they find their own fun, but I know it can be a drag for them. Seeing their cousins, even for an hour, made it all worthwhile.

It was raining when we left for the 90 minute drive home. When we got there, we were greeted with a whollop of wet snow which bent two of our spruce trees in the front yard.

"Don't make me angry. You won't like me when I'm angry."

Baby Boy had a cold Monday and I gave him some medication which knocked him out after lunch.

He was resting comfortably when I got the phone call.

"Jennifer? Hi, this is (Middle Child's teacher). Um, we had a little incident and the principal needs you to come to the school immediately."

It turned out that after gym class, Middle Child's teacher annointed him with the seemingly prestigious role as "the caboose" in the line-up back to their classroom. One boy decided he'd rather be the caboose. Middle Child told him that he couldn't; that it was his turn. Then the boy pushed Middle Child to the ground.

Even when he was a baby, Husband and I nicknamed the kid "The Hulk" because he'd be all mild-mannered but then the shit would hit the fan and he'd totally lose his cool.

That's what happened on Monday.

Middle Child got up, pinned the kid to the wall and bit him on the shoulder, leaving a pretty decent mark.

The teacher and principal were great about the whole thing. "He's not entirely to blame, is he?" the principal said to me when I got there. "Yeah, but it doesn't excuse his reaction," I replied.

I took him home where he wrote a letter of apology to the boy ("I'm sorry I bit you. The next time I will solve my problem with words," he wrote. "I'm not going to say he was right or anything because he wasn't right," he explained). We agreed to a suitable punishment (no Star Wars anything for five days) and then I called Husband to concur.

When I explained what had happened, Husband proudly said, "That'll teach that kid not to mess with The Hulk."

Gian Ghomeshi turned me into a 10-year-old

My cousin used to have this husband who used to play songs he'd like over and over again. I remember once, during a ride back home from babysitting his son, he had Eric Clapton's "Tears From Heaven" (I think that's the title) on a loop. We must have heard that song fifteen times in a row.

Okay, my uncle had recently died and the guy was obviously bereaved, but c'mon. I always thought that practice was unusual and, frankly, a tad dramatic. I knew a lot of people doing it ... when they were 10.

Now I found myself doing the same with "Your Ex-Lover is Dead" by Stars the other day. I heard it on The National Playlist on CBC Radio and I was gobsmacked.

What is my attraction to the song? Is it that the lyrics are something I can relate to as I'm empathising with my sister and the on-going divorce hassles she's experiencing? Is it the odd arrangement? Is it because I'm PMSing?

Yet Another Grey Hair

Maybe I was tempting fate.

When I pick the kids up from school, most times, I let Middle Child (always out first) play in the front of the school while I chit chat with the other parents as I wait for Daughter (always one of the last kids to leave).

Today, I went to my friend's house with Baby Boy. She lives around the corner from the school so she suggested that I leave Baby Boy with her and I would go get all our kids and bring them back. When I got there, Middle Child's class was the first to be dismissed.

"Where's (Baby Boy)?" Middle Child asked.

I told him and then added we would all walk to my friend's house together with her boys, whom Middle Child thinks the sun rises and sets upon.

"Can I play outside?" he asked and, of course, I said he could, thinking he'd remember my rule of "be sure my eyes can see your eyes."

Yeah, right.

He was there one minute. The next, he was gone. Thankfully, the three remaining kids met me right at that moment, so we went looking for him. "Oh, he probably just went to my house," sluffed off the younger of my friend's children.

And he was right.

Needless to say, Middle Child has been punished.

Needless to say, I'm rethinking my allowance of letting him leave my side.

Just Pricing Really Big Bats For Now

Wanna hear smooth?

Daughter sits near this boy in class. On Friday, he asked if this boy she always plays with is her boyfriend.

"No!" she laughed. "We're too young for that stuff!" (Ah, good! She listens!)

"Well, when you are old enough, can I be first in line?"

He phoned today and asked if Daughter wanted to have a playdate Sunday. I told her he could come to our house instead.

I picked up the kids from school and was met by my friend Slowplum.

"Did you read your emails yet?"

Turns out A Million Little Pieces may not be entirely memoirific. The Smoking Gun went looking for some mug shots of the author for their large collection when, ho ho, they couldn't find much. The one they did get looks like James Frey was a little hungover but that's about it: just some preppy who smoked a little pot and drank a bit too much Rolling Rock, not some freakazoid crackhead, oozing toxic crap out of every orafice. But, whatever, looks can be deceiving.

A few things in the book had me wondering about its veritability, but they weren't the things that were picked on by The Smoking Gun. No, I questioned how a boy from the suburbs from a nice family, who was loved, could get into the shit as far as he said he did. I questioned how someone who was so fucked up from the tons of different drugs he was purportedly doing could graduate from university.

Real, fake or somewhere in-between, A Million Little Pieces is still a great read. One could question the written tales of ancient history too. I'm not one to poo-poo the author with possibly taking liberties with facts. Rather, I'm more discouraged because the author took liberties with basic rules of punctuation.

It's like grammar karma!

And the cover is gorgeous!

If you're a comment-reading person, you ought to know that my friend Slowplum was true to her word. She brought me some peppermint bath salts. She labelled the container "Bath Candy" and Middle Child confessed that he took a piece. "That was the worst candy I've ever tasted!"

She also lent me a book: A Million Little Pieces by James Frey.

I devoured it in the course of an evening and into the night, getting into bed at 2.

The book is a memoir of Frey's experiences in rehab (Hazeldon, I would deduce). It was gut-cringing, eye-blinding and even foul-smelling. The guy must have sat down at his computer and just let it flow. You can tell it's coming from a deep, dark place of the soul.

Unlike William S. Burroughs accounts of his drug-soaked past, or that 60s era diary-esque Go Ask Alice which was required reading when I was a girl, I don't think Frey intended to scare or to gross anyone out. His account of the pain he endured getting caps and root canal without anethesia was detailed enough to put you in the chair with him but not with a mirror as well. The part of him pulling out his toenail, on the other hand, I'd rather not discuss. I'm someone who can stand the sight, sound, and smell of vomit, but that was when I put the book down and got myself a glass of water.

Being a stickler for punctuation, however, I was distracted by his complete disregard for quotation marks, commas and question marks. Ditto the freedom to capitalize just about anything (someone's House, they had Kids, my Room, the Dealer). But then again, I don't think James Joyce really got away with it either.

However, I really enjoyed it. I just went to look online to find out more about the author; see what else he has written about. Well, wouldn't you know it, it was chosen for Oprah's Book Club. Yeah, I could just see someone like Husband's suburban aunt reading about vomiting up chunks of stomach.

Someone found the food colouring

and gave it to Baby Boy.

Mmmm! Cheddar!

I'll be a little lighter today.

If you're an old gal like me, you'll remember Christopher Ward doing the yearly "Fromage" show in Much Music's early days. We were discussing it over New Year's dinner with deep sighs of respect and our lament of its passing. Frankly, Ed the Sock just doesn't have it quite like Chris did.

So, if you enjoy cheese like I do, please watch this video, put out in the 80s by the Calgary Flames.

And I can't stand Brett Hull so it makes it that much sweeter.

I am woman. Hear me meow.

Husband goes back to work tomorrow after having over a week off. I can't say I've seen much of him. Our Christmas is all travel. We hit my grandmother's, his grandmother's and my parents' all in two days and there are a LOT of people at these homes. So, no, I can't say I'm by his side the whole time. And when we've been home, he's holed himself with the XBox playing Madden.

Usually, I don't mind him doing his thing. Particularly after work, I know the guy needs to wind down a bit. He never brings crap home and, after his "alone time" he is always easy-going, helpful and generally in a good mood.

But I had my mother-in-law this week. And Husband had me doing all of the entertaining.

It started off okay. She didn't really want to do much, so I just made sure the kids didn't knock her out or annoy her too much. I cooked nice meals, made sure she had her bagels, cream cheese, soy milk and a never ending supply of coffee. I kept my bathrooms spotless and Pine-Sol fresh. We had a previous engagement at my cousin's where she was hosting a big family party for her son's 16th birthday, so she came to that. I guess she was fine (I told Husband to keep her company because I was expected to help out). There was a great spread. But then she broke a tooth off her third pastizzi. Even that didn't annoy her that much.

She was in pretty good spirits, if you don't count the bitching about her mom and siblings, but that's par for the course. She brought out her fortune telling cards, for lack of a better term. I'm not into that. I don't even read my horoscope. But I played along (unlike Husband who chuffed it off, calling it "bullhooey" or something like that). Middle Child loved the illustrations and I fostered his new interest by getting him a half-price calendar of "fantasy" illustrations (fairies, dragons, wizards, mermaids, etc).

We had a kid-friendly New Year's Eve party with friends and their children. I fast-forwarded the clocks by three hours so the kids could count down midnight at what really was 9 pm. The kids had a great time, allowing us moms to be more relaxed than usual (I had five or six drinks). The dads and my mother-in-law spent most of the three hours playing Scrabble, which is MIL's favourite game ever. My friend even said she enjoyed her company out on the porch for smoke breaks.

They left and, it's a blur how it started but, as we were tidying up, MIL got on the subject of Catholic education. She couldn't understand how intelligent people like my friends and I would subject our children to such archaic, expoitative and harmful teachings. "Frankly, it's a little hypocritical of you to call yourselves feminists and then support such a hurtful organization that may very well damage your precious children."

And it got better than that. Oh yes. She cut down just about everything I believed in and stood for. She mocked my opinions. She questioned my intelligence. She refuted my culture. She even, at one point, went on a litany of, essentially, what a shitty weak-assed woman I was. For example, she insisted that I wasn't at all close to nature and that would be my downfall. "I'm the champion recycler on my block," I argued. "I turn off the lights when I leave the room. The house is cooler than it could be in winter and warmer than it could be in summer. I walk my kids to school. I buy organic and locally when possible. Why do you say I'm not close to nature? Because I don't enjoy camping? Because I don't live near mountains and an ocean? I do the best I can with what I can."

Oh, but I fraternize with the masculine too much. Okay, I admit it. I love men. So, I disagreed with her. Women are not better than men. I was raised to believe that I was any man's equal. No, but, you see, I'm just not in tune enough with my feminine side. Huh? I'm a mother. I'm a wife. I'm a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, an aunt, a neice. Go further. I'm creative. I'm intuitive. I'm fucking sensitive, or else I would have put my hands over my ears and walked away when she went on her rampage, just like Husband did. Don't tell me what I am and what I'm not. That was truly insulting, especially to a near 40-year-old. I'm not a child. I've had experiences and, like anyone else's, they have value. From my experiences, I have opinions which hold as much water as anyone else's.

The arguement or debate or whatever it was stemmed from the topic of organized religion, which is something I hate to discuss. I live in a community where it's nothing to blab about your church, and I find that weird and intrusive. Spirituality is a personal thing. To me, it's like telling me how you like to wipe your ass. I just don't want to know. Flip that around and I can also say I don't like to discuss my beliefs, thank you. How can I go to church and be pro-choice? Gee, I guess the same way you can protest government cutbacks to environmental issues and smoke at the same time.

She kept pressing but I wouldn't budge. All I would say is that, true, organized religion has had its moments of unholiness for certain, but billions of people in the past and present have found grace from it. For some, it gives them a set of guidelines on how to stand upright. "But that's common sense," she argued. "But some people need to be told. Not everyone is as intelligent as you are," I responded.

In the end, we saw that our feminism enacts in different ways. She wants to single-handedly change the world. And I just want to go through life doing no harm, teach that to my kids, and hope other people are doing the same. My wish is that she respects my decision as I respect and do my best to support hers. It's the womanly thing to do.

So Be Good, For Goodness Sake

Have you beennaughty or nice?

Daughter's best friend reminded her of this website. We did it last year and, boy, it was accurate. I know it's all in generalities and only has a handful of reports, but it was pretty cool. The kids bought it, anyway.

Three Hours I'll Never Get Back

Husband and I ditched the kids yesterday and caught King Kong.

What a waste of my time.

Oh, don't get me wrong. Everything that is being said about the special effects in this movie is bang-on. Frankly, the guy who played King Kong was great. I think he also did Gollum in those series of movies that, I'm told, I'm the only person on Earth who hasn't seen them.

What got me were the tiny details; the physics of it all. I mean, with all that dropping and catching and throwing around, the Naomi Watts character should have died or, at the very least, had motion sickness. Arms should have been ripped off at the sacrifice scene. And why wasn't the wind whipping around up at the top of the Empire State Building in December? And she was in a sleeveless gown.

It's kind of like taking a crazy long time to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and then doing stick figure hands on God.

Husband's rebuttal was simply put: "Jen," he sighed, "it's a movie about a 25-foot gorilla."

Staples Calendars Suck Bobo

I usually give my mother one of those calendars you get a photocopy shops where photos are enlarged on the colour copier and then coil bound with the months.

The place I usually go has a cut-off of November 30 and my sister hadn't given me any photos of her kids by then. So I scrambled for a place that would do it with a fast turn around. Staples just opened up in town and they said they'd do one in 24 hours.

True to their word, I picked it up yesterday and I'm so disappointed. Not only is there some weird photocopied smudge on my nephew's cheek (he's Mr. December), but there were no annotations for holidays nor was the coil bound the whole way. And, it's a little thing but a big thing, there was no little hole drilled at the top for hanging.

I asked if they had such a drill and the person said they didn't but I could use their 3-hole punch (why???). And then she adds, "I use thumbtacks." Even in December? Must be pretty long thumbtacks, honey.

Why I'd Make a Lousy Teacher, Reason #43: I Intrinsically Hate Knowitalls

I just got back from watching the two older kids skate. Their school booked some time at the rink nearby. Middle Child's class went first so after helping tie skates, I put the bobskates on Baby Boy and hit the ice.

I was astounded at how well Middle Child's skating has come along (Daughter is doing great too). Baby Boy spent most of the time sitting on a chair while his brother or his brother's classmates would skate around with him.

So, after an hour with Middle Child's class, a bunch of moms and I were sitting around waiting for the next batch of classes to come (I was waiting for Daughter's). The Grade 3/4 class were the first to arrive. Her kids didn't even have their skates on when she came clear across the arena to tell us, "Our insurance doesn't cover anyone who isn't in the classes, so you can't skate. Sorry." This was the same cow that seemingly broke the news to me last week that my friend's son, whom I've known since he was a toddler, has autism. Oooh, what a news flash! Thanks, Bessie.

One mom was livid. "Why could we skate for one class and not the other?" She wasn't angry enough to push the envelope. She waited for her daughter to arrive, told her what was going on and went home.

On the other hand, I waited for Daughter's teacher until I started untying my skates. "No, no, Jennifer! I need you out there with the kids because I don't skate!" I told her what I was told and the teacher replied, "Give me your word that you won't sue the school and then go out if you want." Nyeah, nyeah, ni-nyeah nyeah.

Needless to say, Baby Boy was upset. I still kept him off the ice because I didn't want to start a big war (just a little one). Besides, what if my kids get her as a teacher one year?

And then my friend Slowplum gave me a Sudoku book and some wicked awesome banana chocolate chip muffins — still warm! So it all balances out. How very Zen.

Sick, But Not Sick Enough

Yesterday, Middle Child woke up and puked a bit. Obviously, Husband and I thought it best that he should stay home from school.

He moaned and bitched on the chesterfield until about 9ish, when I invited him to do some printing practice. He finished his lines of Bs while I was folding laundry.

When I was done, I found him in his room, stuffing his face with candy that he's been squirrelling away since Halloween.

Needless to say, I sent him to school after that. If you're well enough to eat candy and not barf it up, you're well enough to go to school. He was excited about that because he forgot it was Science Monday at school.

Lego and Let Go

Last weekend, we braved the cold and went to the local Santa Claus parade. At least Husband, the boys and myself got to walk around a bit when we couldn't feel our toes anymore.

Daughter wasn't so lucky. She was on a float.

Her Brownie pack went as the Island of Misfit Toys. Her Brown Owl and Tawny Owl made costumes for all the girls but as they were handing them out, Daughter piped up. "You don't need to give me one. My mum makes awesome costumes. She'll make mine, if that's okay."

That was Wednesday. The parade was Sunday. Why, oh why didn't she take the free costume?

Fine, I told her. You'll go as a stray piece of Lego.

"But there was no Lego in the Rudolph movie, Mumma!"

I made the costume Sunday morning as we were busy at my nephew's birthday party on Saturday. Thankfully, the leftover housepaint dried and, lookit, she looked great.

In the end, she was thrilled with her costume. Brown Owl thought she looked so good, she had her sit up front.

"Could anyone tell you were a piece of Lego, honey? Did you hear anyone say, 'Oh look! Lego!' on the parade route?" I asked.

"Oh, I only heard that comment about, um, A THOUSAND TIMES! It was awesome!"

Building happy childhood memories one by one. That's what it's all about.

Why Do I Bother?

I just finished the last of my 12 sessions with a personal trainer.

Oh, I can see it has been working. My upper body is something else. In fact, just two nights ago, I wrapped a towel around me after having a shower and Husband came in to get ready.

"You're looking a little macho," he said.

I should have slugged him with my superior upper body strength.

But, even sadder, was that I have only lost a measly one per cent of body fat. All that fresh hell for one per cent?!

Another Reason Why Rudolph's Nose is Red

We went to my cousin's child's first birthday party yesterday. It's always great to hang out with my extended family. All the families there lived within a ten minute walk of each other for a good period of time and we used to get together a lot when my grandparents were still alive.

All the families were there except for one, who, ironically, didn't live near us, and are on the outs with the family these days, for reasons I'm not privy to. Not that I care or anything. I'm too old to worry about popularity.

We got stuck in traffic on the way home, so we got some good views of other people's vehicles.

Daughter shrieked, "I just saw a truckload of bleeding mooses." Meanwhile Husband and I questioned her while Baby Boy exclaimed, "Look! Santa's reindeer!" Frankly, it was a more accurate comparison.

There was a pickup filled with about six or more elk or caribou (we think - they were too big to be deer). Blood from their noses, they were piled atop each other, heads hanging off the back of the pickup.

Daughter started to cry. "Roll down the window, Daddy," she asked. "I want to call them 'Meanies.'"

Bonnofie Pie: So Good!

While I was putting away laundry on the second floor, the kids completely destroyed the living room. All the cushions were off the chesterfield. The stocking were down, with one stocking holder broken. Mandarin peels all over and spilled applesauce on the rug. And toys. And paper. And crayons. Ho-lee shit.

So I tidied up the living room and had asked the kids to tidy the playroom. I had just finished vacuuming when Middle Child came down and said, "Yeah, um, well, ah, you see, er, the Christmas tree is broken. (Daughter) tried fixing it but she made it worser."

Sure enough, the tree (fake) was on its side; the top part snapped off. Broken ornaments abound, I fixed the tree the best I could and then went to a friend's house before I did something I would regret.

Of course, the kids were still squirrelly there but a little better behaved. It just didn't seem like it to one of the boys who lived there. Tears abound.

I sat in the kitchen with my friend and her older son, who, with his whack load of play dough made this pie. What's in it? Orange, strawberry, banana, whipped cream and, after a while, he didn't care to name. He just wanted to use every colour he had. The masterpiece is called Bonnofie Pie and is a thing of beauty.

At 4:30, I had asked the kids to start tidying up. By 5:00, they were starting to put on their coats. By 5:30, we realized that Middle Child lost a boot.

I carried him to the car, came home to answer the phone. "Did you forget you had dinner plans with us tonight?" I didn't when I woke up, but by that time, the horribleness of the day kinda smudged my memory. Anyway, we made our way over to their house to be greeted by my university friend, "You look like hell." She knows me well.

I only asked for liquor after Middle Child busted up a guitar their son had made by himself. I asked for another when Middle Child knocked over a shelf of toys in the basement. And threw a pizza. My friends are very diplomatic women. "Oh, he's just acting silly because he worships our son." Probably very true. Their son got Middle Child into Star Wars. They're very, very similar, though their son is three years older than mine. But, further, I thought maybe Middle Child felt like he needed to be noticed because he knows that Daughter and this boy have been friends since they were very wee. Whatever, it all got worked out once the boy brought out his new obsession: dragonology. He indoctrinated Middle Child into that world and, this morning, my kid has a million questions about dragons.

And then I came home to watch INXS perform on Much More Music. I would have turned it off the minute I saw that twit Traci Melchor was the host. Man, that woman can't interview her way out of a paper bag. And why waste airtime complimenting audience members over their tops? Anyway, I watched it all the way through just in case I could spot my baby sister who was in the crowd. And I did.

Loser

I feel like:
a) the biggest doofus in town
b) the worst mother ever
c) the school board make yet another error

I went out this morning, as I always do, and surveyed the weather and roads. Seemed fine. Sure, there was snow but it was rather temperate.

So I bundled the kids up in their snowsuits and off we went the four blocks to school.

I knew something was amiss when I noticed the parking lot was empty of teachers' cars. The only one there was the custodian's. Sure enough, there was a note posted on the front door: No school today Friday the 25th.

Bless Me Father

Daughter had her first confession yesterday. She came home from school and was a bundle of nerves.

I made one of her favourite dinners and then she said she wanted to dress up for the occassion. She put on her emerald salwar kameez (and we aren't from India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka or Pakistan) and her winter boots. Oh yes, quite the look.

There in the church were all her friends from school and she was actually surprised to see them there. One of her best friends made it a family affair. The little brothers wore suits. The aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandmother were there. Meanwhile, Daughter and I just closed the door to the house with me saying, "Back in about 30 minutes."

She lined up for the youngest priest of the three "because he's closer to being a kid than the others" but the line didn't move fast enough. So she and her three friends started line-hopping. She got out of the confessional beaming and loudly proclaimed, "I only have to say two Our Fathers!"

One of the priests was doing confessing face-to-face up on the altar. He had Parkinsons or something, as he was flailing big time. Needless to say, this was the talk in the schoolyard this morning.

It's Christmastime in the City

We spent Saturday visiting the great-grandmas. Mine already had a visitor, my mum's cousin, who has the amazing ability to mouth the words you are speaking as you are saying them. I don't know how she does it and I'm sure she isn't even aware that she is doing it. But it's cool to watch.

The grand dames are doing fine, despite all the doom and gloom that others say about them. Sure, mine is still very upset about the death of her son this past summer, but she was cracking jokes and was otherwise interested in what others were doing. But, when she was talking about posting some letters, she held up one addressed to my cousin but she was referring to my nephew (both with birthdays in December). She realized she was holding the wrong envelope and went back to the dining room to put it away. Meanwhile, my mum said in a hushed tone, "Oh, my poor mother! She's so disoriented and confused." Whatever.

And Husband's grandmother is getting a little hard of hearing, but is still more "with it" than many people my age.

The next day, Daughter got presented at church. It's not a big deal; the kids in her class were called up to the altar and the parish was told they're going to receive the sacrament of first reconciliation this week. Everyone clapped ("Way to go, little sinners!") and they went back to their seats.

Daughter thought she should milk this so she implored, "Since I didn't faint up there, can we set up the Christmas decorations?" So, tempting fate (the kids are bound to destroy something with this extra time), Daughter and I put them up. Of course, she left me to tidy up.

Meanwhile, Husband went grocery shopping for the first time in about six months. I'm not sure how he did it, but he managed to spend $300 and he didn't even buy half the things I needed (diapers, mozzarella, laundry detergent).

But the kids don't care if I "plate"

Last weekend, I had my baby sister and her boyfriend over. This was Boyfriend's first time up at the house. I walked them around town, came home and I made dinner.

I bought some organic sirloins which I marinaded in a red wine vinagrette with some portabello mushrooms. No big whup, but it ain't macaroni and cheese, either. I didn't want Husband to barbecue it because he likes his meat drier than English humour, so, for the first time ever, I grilled the steaks on my indoor grill. Everything came up nice enough.

My Intention Was Good

It almost always is.

I had volunteered to start Daughter's class on the Flat Stanley Project. This is an initiative to teach children a little geography, language arts and social studies by sending a paper doll somewhere far away. The person (often family or friend) who receives the Flat Stanley takes it around for a week and then write about the paper doll's adventures. When the week is over, the doll and the journal is sent back to the student who sent it.

The principal of the school caught wind and insisted that the children write their own letters, which, at their age, is very tough for most. So now all the kids are at different stages in the project, making it a little confusing for the teacher, it appears. She's going behind the boss' back and gave the kids a photocopied fill-in-the-blank journal to speed things up. A good idea; I hope it works.

Anyway, there was one boy who had no family to send his Flat Stanley to. So I emailed a bunch of schools on the Flat Stanley website and - finally - I heard back from one. And I'm stoked. He'll be sending one to Whitefish River First Nation.

I hope the kid he's partnered with really gets into what it's like up there. But with how the project is going so far, I'm betting the journal will be filled with "I watched CBC Kids and then played XBox. Mom made hot dogs for dinner."

The class project is out of my hands now, save for sending this one Flat Stanley to the reserve. And now I got a letter from the Resource Teacher at the school asking if I'd help with their literacy program every blinking Tuesday morning. This is in addition to being asked to help the kindergarten class for 90 minutes every Thursday. Doesn't the school board have employees for this?

Oh shitwa

DSCN0513
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

This is what I woke up to today.

By the way, "shitwa" means snow in Maltese.

An open letter to Katie Holmes

I glanced at Us Magazine in the line-up at the grocery store today. Katie Holmes was on the cover.

The soon-to-be Kate Cruise (which is funny considering Tom's real last name is something like Mapother) is laying low in seclusion, surely reading all sorts of great Scientology brochures on the joys of a silent birth and the fallacy of post-partum depression. She's also taken up knitting.

Okay, this is what I suggest to you, Katie or Kate or whatever. Knit. Keep knitting. Knit the longest effing scarf ever. Secure it and roll it down the high tower you've been banished to. Shimmy yourself down with your spawn (the father, whomever he is, will surely thank you) and run like the wind.

Not that I care or anything.

A Public Service Announcement from Jen

I was just making Five Alive from concentrate for Middle Child (he caught me at the grocery store at a moment of weakness. I'm a 100 per cent juice kind of mom).

As I was stirring, I read the nutritional information on the side of the can. Get this: there's 120 calories in a serving of 4 tbsp. FOUR TABLESPOONS!!! Who the hell drinks only 4 tablespoons?

So, there you go. My first and last time I will be bringing home Five Alive. Back to the Tropicana, kids.

Simple Pleasures

Yesterday was a good day.

I gassed up at 81 cents (and got $1.30 in Sobey's coupons).

I got some retail therapy done with a very good friend.

Had a rather good and seemingly bottomless cup of coffee at said friend's home.

I bought a pasta maker for $20.

Middle Child attended the first birthday party he has ever been invited to (not a patronage invite, but from an actual school friend). Okay, he accidently locked himself in the bathroom stall at McDonald's but other than those ten minutes, he said he had a great time.

Weighed myself and have lost 10 lbs. since I started at the gym two months ago.

And the temperature in town reached 17 degrees.

My cup runneth over. It doesn't take much, obviously.

Gourd God!

The kids' gourds
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

I would be remiss had I not blogged my older kids' entries into my friend's gourd decorating contest. Daughter won with her Medusa gourd. Middle Child's had gone through many transformations but his final entry was called "Clown Zombie Guy with a Bloody Nose."

Anyway, before I pick up Daughter from school, I just want to diarize my horrific experience today. Middle Child started off his day just rotten, as is the norm with him, unfortunately. Wednesdays are a day off of school for him so I promised him a fun day ahead. I took him to Husband's work, then to the most excellent Festival Loon dollar store where I bought him popsicle sticks for his craft-o-rama. We wrapped a parcel for my new nephew and walked to the post office (I let him pay). Then I took him to this science store called Quark Soup. My God, he could have spent three hours there. He's the only kid his age who knows about Leonardo da Vinci and Albert Einstein and there was a plethora of such paraphernalia there. And TONS of science toys, all out and ready to be played with.

Okay, now there is a children's bookstore in town that I don't like to shop at. It all stems from a visit I had made while it was raining. I was pushing 2-year-old Daughter in the stroller (and I was well-pregnant) and went in the store ready to drop $50 on books for my cousin's son. Well, this craggy old shopkeeper was following me and the wet-wheeled stroller with a mop and pail, stopping when I stopped, mopping as I walked. I turned and asked if I was wrecking their store or something like that. "Well, you are tracking a bit of dirt in here." So I left.

I swear, maybe I shop at Fundamentals once every 18 months. I only go there if I have to.

Well, after we went into Quark Soup, Middle Child had a million da Vinci questions, so I thought we'd go around the corner and see about getting a kid book on the science giant. Fundamentals would probably be the only place in town that would have something like that in stock.

As we were walking there, I told Middle Child and Baby Boy to be their bestest, goodest selves; to "look with their eyes and not with their hands" because the shopkeepers don't really like children.

We went in and I asked the woman at the register for da Vinci books right away and she found me two. I let Middle Child choose (thankfully, he picked the cheaper one) and paid for it. While waiting for my change, Baby Boy got out of the stroller and walked over to this display of plastic knights for sale. He took one that he already had (to show me?) when the woman left the register, grabbed the $5 knight out of Baby Boy's hand and gave the hand a tap. "Don't touch!" she said to him. I stood there, for once speechless. She gave me my change. Baby Boy started to cry and ran out the door of the store. I grabbed Middle Child's hand and ran after Baby Boy, but the shopkeeper was a step ahead of me. She caught him, picking him up. Baby Boy yelled at her, "You a stupid bad lady." I took my son from her and quietly promised myself and my family to never darken their door again.

That's when Middle Child said loudly, "You're right, Mumma. They don't like children."

Jack-o-lantern 2005

Jack-o-lantern 2005
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

Needless to say, Middle Child was in complete awe of me after I carved this baby.

The real Halloween festivities began, I suppose, after the school day and its "orange and black day." The JK/SK class had a party in the afternoon so the sugar buzz began early for them.

We stopped by a friend's house and for the two minutes I was at their front door, the seven-year-old son was doing this hop dance on alternating legs. Did he have to pee? No. That was just pent up energy and excitement.

My kids fared no better - or worse. They wolfed down the taco dinner (in keeping with the "Halloween is the true kid holiday" theme) and were dressed quicker than they ever dressed themselves in the morning.

Daughter went as a Bollywood starlet, complete with her gold-embroidered salwar kameez, flat-ironed hair, false eyelashes, lipstick and a bindi.

Middle Child went as The Human Torch from The Fantastic Four. Husband was walking with the kids this year. He said Middle Child would walk up to the bajillion SpiderMen and tell them they were on his Marvel hero team. I'm sure the other kids couldn't give a rat's ass who publishes their comic books.

Baby Boy was a dog. Yes, the same damned plush dog costume Middle Child had when he was two and had worn it for three years straight. This is Baby Boy's second Halloween as the puppy.

Of course, he didn't really care. He was warm. He was wearing a costume. And everytime he left a doorway from trick-or-treating, he'd exclaim loudly and proudly to his dad, "I got candy!"

I had about 35 kids at the door and not one teenager. Even the very tall kids couldn't have been more than 12. I mean, they all came with parents.

And nearly everyone complimented me on my jack-o-lantern. Thank goodness this one wasn't smashed.

Grab My Finger

Grab My Finger
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

The two older kids were invited to a Halloween party yesterday. I made these almond cookies, which was a paltry contribution compared to what the host had done.

She must have spent a bit on decorations, and there must have been tons of pizza and snacks. The mom and the helper cousin wore costumes (Middle Child loved the mom's Lilly Munster hair) and there was even loot bags and prizes.

And there was scraps. Daughter was particularly upset that the host's youngest son (and one of her best friends) seemed to be having some times of utter sadness throughout the party. Get yourself a roomful of boys and there's bound to be tears.

Daughter couldn't have cared less that Middle Child got upset a few times (and I have since learned that he almost threw a punch at a boy three years older than him...we had a loooong talk). But to see her friend getting hurt and the injury hampered his ability to win the Pass the Beanbag game, well, she got a little miffed.

She told the boy who inevitably won that he should forfeit his prize to the host's son, especially since Prize Boy already won a game. He refused, so she gave him her prize - a pink flashlight.

She's still upset and is all worried that her friend didn't have a good time at his own party.

Or maybe she did some serious scrapping and is feeling guilty. Of course, Daughter would never tell, unlike Middle Child who gave me a blow-by-blow about each instance he lost his cool.

How to Impress a Maltese-Canadian

Kif inti sabieh!

Today is a banner day in the life of my baby sister's boyfriend. For the first time, he shall meet my parents. Surely, this is a sign of respect and commitment on both sister and boyfriend's part and, at the same time, my relatives everywhere are saying, "tenks be to gohd" because we have taken the first step in bringing one more into the fold that is the ever-burgeoning Maltese-Canadian extended family.

But what does this mean? The uninitiated may think, "Oh, they're just like my own parents." Not so! And don't EVER suggest they'd be just like Italian-Canadians.

So here, as a token of my good will toward Sister's Love Muffin "and, wit' Santa 'Lena's help, future ziu ta' bint" I write a handy list of things to know about the Maltese in order to impress.

- You should know that Popeye, Troy and parts of Gladiator were filmed in Malta.
- Maltesers were not invented in Malta.
- Maltese terriers actually were first bred in Malta.
- The eight-pointed cross you see hanging on walls or car grills, key chains, door knockers, crocheted doilies and necklaces is the Maltese cross.
- The Maltese Falcon has nothing to do with Malta.
- The goddess temples in Malta date back to an estimated 5000 BC, making them the oldest structures in the world. And Stonehenge looks like a jumble of big rocks in comparison.
- If you don't eat the fish or gbenit, hate sports and Elvis, and have no interest in talking politics, you will need to find another way to impress a Maltese dad.
- If you have lousy dinner table manners, a Maltese mum will be highly unamused - and above all, do not fart, spit, or burp anywhere around her.
- Maltese believe in the evil eye.
- There is no point in having a debate on the merits of turning Jehovah Witness, or being Muslim.
- "Deh Jahnkshin" is on "Dahndas."
- You won't need a translator. Most Maltese speak English well and you will never forget a Maltese accent. Moosh veru.
- If you are an accountant, or are otherwise good with money, you will greatly impress your Maltese mother-in-law.
- If you run your own business, or have built something on your own, your Maltese father-in-law will be very impressed.
- Remember the Maltese father's motto: "If it's free, it's good for me!"
- The Maltese grandmother is the queen.
- If you are invited to a Maltese gathering, get familiar with the likes of qassatat, pastizzi, rabbit stew, figolli, and qaq tal ahsel. And weight gain.
- If you are Catholic but you weren't confirmed and didn't do your communion, don't mention it!
- Most Maltese take exception if you say, "I've heard Malta is like Italy or Greece."
- If you are over 22 and not married, a Maltese grandmother will think you must have some sort of physical problem or disease.
- If you have been married for a year and are childless, the novenas have begun.
- It is always gold. Even better if you bought it from a Maltese jeweller.
- If you don't understand horseracing, or don't drink hard liquor, you won't get on a Maltese grandfather's good side.
- Never, ever refuse food.
- Always give a gift of money to a Maltese wedding. And it better cover the cost of the plate.
- If you have a Maltese wedding, it must have at least these three things: a sweets table, lots of dancing, and a host bar.
- If you don't know what Kinnie is, find out!
- If you hate to talk, you better be good at listening.
- If you have something to say at a Maltese gathering, say it loudly.
- Know your Maltese celebs: Edward De Bono, (lateral thinking), Jason and Justine Bateman (actors), Robert Palmer (born in Britain but was raised in Malta)
- Everyone has an Auntie Mary and a cousin Charlie ("Chahli"). Many are related to men named Carmen or Juzi and sometimes even Shmoon.
- You don't have to have a Maltese background to impress a Maltese family.

Jabon u laham!

My New Look

Grazie to my friend, Slowplum (the saddest girl to ever hold a martini), who offered to revamp my blog for me. Hey, I like change! And I have no clue as to how to do this kind of thing, so I'm not above accepting charity.

Because I've had questions, here's the answer. The character to the left here is Tank Girl. Middle Child, comic book geek that he is at such a tender age, likes the new look.

"What's her superpowers?"

"Um, she just fights well."

"Then she's not a superhero. She's more like Batman and Robin."

Middle Child picked out a new pumpkin yesterday. He and I decided to keep it in the trunk of the car until carving time Sunday.

Husband had some bank guy come over to the house at 7 last night to discuss the feasibility of the business buying a house to operate from. The house was a mess after dinner. I made lamb (had I known we were having people over, I wouldn't have made stinky meat, but I want to expand the kids' palates). Baby Boy wasn't a fan and had spat out some chewed bits on to the rug. I hadn't done the dishes and Daughter had to get dressed for Brownies so her clothes - and homework - were everywhere. So when 6:30 came around, I had to leave to take Daughter to Brownies, with Husband ensuring me he'd make the place presentable. "Go hang out with your Brownie Mommy Friends."

I did. I came home to a near-spotless house. "And what's that sound?" Husband asked, grinning. "It's silence! I got the boys sleeping!"

Show off.

Having a horrible, terrible, not very good day

Middle Child is a self-professed lover of all things creepy.

So you may very well imagine how excited he is about Halloween. For Daughter, it's all about the candy. For Middle Child, however, it runs much, much deeper.

Knowing this, you could imagine the horrifying shriek that woke up the neighbourhood this morning when he saw that someone took our pumpkin off the porch and smashed it on the road.

He's calmed down now. I consoled him with some salt and pepper chips and I put on Shrek 2. However, every once in a while, he sighs and says a singular comment like, "It was the perfect pumpkin! So big and round" and "They must have been out of their minds. Who would do that?" The saddest one was "They saw we had toys on the porch. They must have known there were little kids who live here. Why would someone wreck the life of a little kid?"

Sweetness, if the only wrong-doing done unto you as a child is someone destroying your pumpkin, then you are blessed and lucky.

Sucker for punishment, when Shrek 2 is over, we're going to buy another pumpkin. He wants me to carve a Frankenstein this year. But I like the idea of doing a George W. Bush. Now THAT'S scary!

I have a new nephew!

I'm an aunt again! My brother-in-law (more like my sister-in-law, really) had a baby boy last night. Quick labour, if labour can be called quick, and out came the 6 lb. 14 oz. bruiser.

We were sent a photo already. My sister-in-law looks so good. You'd never know she just gave birth.

I'm going to call the nephew's great-grandma now. This would make him her 18th great-grandchild. Some people collect stamps...

She can see them screw

My middle sister just moved in to her new home, right behind the Robertson Screw factory (the robbie is my second-favourite Canadian invention, followed by the zipper). Outside of the builder beige that was everywhere, the home is totally splendid. Airy. Bright. Everyone there seems very happy with the move and I'm sure it will be good for everyone involved.

Tomorrow, I will be teaching Daughter's class. I'm taking over the social studies part of the day and will get them into the Flat Stanley Project. The kids will make paper characters and a journal, which will then be sent to far-away family or friends to host for a week. The hosts will write a bit about what Stanley learned about how they live their daily lives and then send it back to the kids. I'm hoping to get photos of Flat Stanleys kissing the cod in St. John's, contimplating life near the Golden Gate Bridge, watching the fly plane come in to some remote reserve in northern Ontario, holding up the Tower of Pisa, whatever. Daughter will be sending hers off to the relatives out west, most probably, and, possibly, off to relatives in Malta because, hey, no one else in the class will.

Anyway, I'm a little nervous. I can control a roomful of kids. I'm definitely not afraid to talk in front of a crowd. I'm just hoping that this project works as well as I hope it will. And I hope the teacher will give me a hand, but, by the looks of it, I doubt that.

I lost two inches on my waist. Only a bajillion more to go. And I made a chocolate cheesecake yesterday.

My friend linked to me on her blog. Here's hers.

Man, I don't do enough here, in comparison. Don't get me started on the asthetic. The dots are, well, like builder beige to me. Fine for now, but remains mute. And the idea of using the blog as a way to write fiction, sheesh, why didn't I think of that? Mind you, I've never tried to write fiction. Gawd, and there's so much I edit from my real life here. Seriously, it can be like a soap opera (or spaghetti western, depending on the day).

When my children's mother makes them dinner...

Hot Dog Mummy
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

When my sister's love interest makes her dinner...

Dinner For Two
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

But how can you stop watching those robot children?

Husband is giving up on The Amazing Race because it appears the teams aren't going to leave the United States.

"How boring!" he exclaimed toward the end of the program. "I can just see it now. 'Go to the Hollywood sign for your next clue.' Yawn. Or how about, 'Find your way to Joe's Cafe in Philidelphia and eat a jumbo cheesesteak sandwich.' What's the entertainment in that?"

But I have to admit, Kitchy Jen loves seeing "the world's biggest...whatever" because they're weird. Seriously, what made the people decide on "the world's largest office chair"?

Here's a collection of odd roadside attractions. I could just eat this stuff up with a spoon.

He's not peeing in jars yet

The winds are a-blowin' and that leads all good Canadian minds to...skating!

We took the kids out to the nearby rink last Sunday. Daughter wore her new figure skates (I practically stole them at a garage sale for $1) and liked them a lot. She's been on hockey skates since she started, so this is a little different. We put Baby Boy back on bobskates, just until he gets his bearings again. Middle Child preferred to sit in the stands and eat popcorn instead. He was destraught to see how many he had dropped, to which Baby Boy was more than happy to pick up.

Middle Child has suddenly become a bit of a germaphobe. He doesn't adhere to the 5-second rule, let me tell you. He is home from school every Friday and helps me wash the floors. I had thought he just liked dunking the mop, but I'm starting to think his benevolence runs deeper than that.

I just hope he doesn't turn into some Howard Hughes or something. The kid's mind runs a little different than most. He's way too analytical for someone his age, and he puts too much into forethought. Maybe he's on his way to being like this old "eccentric" woman I used to see when I worked at Yonge and Eglinton in Toronto. She'd pull out this white kid glove for everything: opening doors, handling money, using the ATM, and dialing a payphone. Granted, I'm sure she had a point. Her glove WAS kinda grey in spots.

Standing cesspools from around the world. Enjoy!

For this, I went to university

I signed up to help with my kids' school's 50th anniversary presentation. And I'm hoping I didn't bite more than I can chew.

It was actually my friend J's idea to join up together. I thought it couldn't be too difficult as I helped out at their nursery school's 50th party a few years back.

But maybe I'm wrong.

"Everything hinges on when the priest can hold a mass," the principal said as we sat down for our first official meeting yesterday, which I was given less than an hour's notice, but I digress.

We're hoping to have a 1950s themed carnival, but have to cram in a mass and some dust-farters speaching it up. I'm hoping he takes my suggestion of forming a choir of students to sing popular songs from each decade. Wouldn't it be a riot to hear these kids sing "Major Tom" or "We're Not Gonna Take It"?

Yesterday was also a banner day for Husband. He and my friend J's husband had to lead the boys' Beavers troop in activities. He said the kids didn't settle down for a minute. It must have been frustrating for him, especially since he had to lay-off one of his employees (a lab tech) yesterday as well.

Fact of the day: Approximately 2 million mistakes are made in the 100,000 labs in the US every day (from coolquiz.com)

Statistics Canada Beware!

I was recently emailed a survey from a friend. "Answer these 30 questions and I'll get a better idea of who you really are." I get sent these often, actually. It's innocent enough.

Favourite movie: The Royal Tenenbaums and Dogma

First school you attended: St. James in Toronto

If you could change one part of your body, what would you choose: my genetics

Yeah, yeah, I know it wasn't exactly the answer one is supposed to give. I'm supposed to say something like "my nose" or "my pot belly." But the question was what would I change IF I COULD.

I can change my nose. I can lose some weight. But I can't change my genetics. Out of all the family members who have died, all but two passed on due to cancer or stroke. My dad and his surviving siblings have varying degrees of heart disease.

Okay, pretty much all of these people had been smoking since, ooh, grade school, but genetics could have hastened their deaths, right?

Being the mother of a daughter who is already concerned about her appearance, I try to be so very conscious of projecting a healthy attitude about straight looks. And it's tough. One day, she's not blonde enough; the other day, she wants to know what anorexia nervosa is (it could be because she wants to be a doctor, but I don't want to take the chance).

She has yet to refuse candy, though.

Speaking of which, do you remember these?

Why I never add :) in my entries

My friend lent me an incredible book called Eats, Shoots and Leaves: a zero tolerance guide to punctuation. I can't even begin to tell you how much I love it.

As an aside, I think Hugh Grant is one hefty piece of luggage. Give me a nice glass of pinot noir, sleeping children, a clean kitchen and a brainless Hugh Grant movie and I'm set.

But there is one movie I have yet to see, out of protest. It would be Two Weeks Notice, with Sandra Bullock. Why hadn't I wanted to see this one? Think. Do you want a clue? There's a problem with the movie's title. Didn't get it? THAT'S why I love Eats, Shoots and Leaves. And, joy of joys, the author presents the reader with this very movie as an example of the world going to hell...and she does so right in the very first chapter! I belong! I belong!

For years, my family regarded me as some anomalous being, all because I am a stickler for correct spelling and grammar. I had always had a lovely relationship with My Buttercup godchild until I completely alienated myself one Christmas when I went on a rant about how I felt e-mail abbreviations were going to kill the already floundering English language. "A semicolon doesn't mean 'I'm winking at you.'"

At the university newspaper I had worked at (for credit), I had been praised for being so stringent with spelling, grammar and style. My editor, James Ip (where are you?), had also often added that I was the only person he knew who could tell the difference between the fonts Times and Times New Roman (it was in the late 80s, so that really was rare among university students, I'm sure).

When I left journalism and went into advertising, I realized that, perhaps, the majority of people in English-speaking Canada cared much less than I did about en-dashes and em-dashes.

Now that I'm a parent, I weep when I get notes from the teacher about "phamphlets" and even, oh sweet Jesus, "Mr. Peter's schedule and it's flexability." And I'm sending my children to you to be taught? Or should I say "teached"?

I'd love this shirt for Christmas, by the way.

Daughter's Amazing Race

Okay, just in case I hear it from more members of the family, my cousin's anti-bullying thing with the Argonauts can be found here.

Daughter is participating in her first cross country race today. I think she runs 900 m. Anyway, she's the only girl in her entire grade who was interested so she made the team regardless of her performance. All I can hope is that she will bathe afterward.

Seriously, I've spent at least $25 over the last little while on bath products, just to entice her in the tub. She's fine once she gets in there but she just draaags it out when I tell her it is bathtime. Recently, I ordered sugar cookie scented bubble bath from Avon (they had a scratch 'n sniff dot so it is scent-approved). I'm crossing my fingers and plugging my nose. No, it's not that bad.

But it's nearly 30 Celcius here today. Crazy October weather, man. Baby Boy worked up a real sweat at nursery school. Ew.

Why The Lark is only selling to 30% capacity, I dunno.

My baby sister, her friend, my friend and myself went to see Amanda Plummer in The Lark at the Stratford Festival yesterday.

I thought this story of Joan of Arc would be a little heavier than it was, but it was actually chuckly in parts (intentionally, I mean).

Okay, the play itself was a bit of a snoozer, but honestly palatable. Amanda Plummer was really wonderful, I thought. She portrayed St. Joan as the country bumpkin she really must have been, which made her story so much more understandable as to why it was remarkable.

Of course, I'm watching it and I kept thinking, "Wow! I'm five rows away from Pulp Fiction's Honey Bunny!"

As an aside, I wore this jacket that reminds me of the Von Trapp children's curtains-then-playclothes. The reference to Christopher Plummer was unintentional, I'll have you know.

Ain't that a kick in the head

Middle Child and Baby Boy were by the gate at the elementary school, waiting for Daughter to be picked up.

One of the special needs children at the school, a Grade 7 boy with Down's Syndrome, wanted to close the gate and pushed Middle Child off. My kid crouches to whisper "Let's run away" to his little brother and Grade 7 goes to kick Middle Child. Instead, his running shoe meets with Baby Boy's right cheekbone, sending my little duffer flying backward. The bigger kid runs away and now Baby Boy has a lovely scrape and bruise.

I informed the head of the educational assistance program, who would work with this kid, of what transpired. Meanwhile, another parent and a bunch of kid witnesses ran in to tell the principal.

I don't expect anything to come of this. I mean, how much of the consequence of action will be understood by this child, who may have more physical and neurological problems than I can possibly tell?

I'm told this kid has done this before. All I can hope is that it ends here and doesn't happen again to anyone else again.

But, really, I'm as mad as piss about this.

And on another note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY C.P.!

Babies having babies

I was at the gym and overheard a woman talk about a relative of hers who is having a baby...at 13.

Thirteen? That's like a baby having a baby! Can the body of a 13-year-old even manage to carry a child, I wonder?

My goodness, when I was 13, I was still in Jenny Meehan's family room with my middle sister and the three of us were making our "comedy tapes." We were watching daytime reruns of Saturday Night Live and wanted to make a show of our own on Jenny's tape recorder. We parodied commercials; we came up with skits (I fondly remembered the one of a pride of lions feasting on Placenta Helper); we had recurring characters like Mrs. Robisnotski; we were our own musical guests.

When I was volunteering at a birth control centre out west, I once had to assist on a pregnancy test for a 12-year-old. Thankfully, it was negative, but the child was, I truly believed, a prostitute or in some really sick situation, so who knows what happened to her.

And just yesterday, Daughter made an out-of-the blue announcement that almost every girl in the class in liked by at least one boy. She has one, who is really more like a best friend and I like it that way thanks, but all the boys have a crush on Nicole. Then she states, "I think boys like blond girls better." Daughter is a brunette. Yeah, I stopped folding laundry and Husband turned off the Golf Channel and we had a nice chat with her.

I should show her how to use a tape recorder.

I'm not pregnant. I'm fat.

Three weeks into a three-times-a-week gym regimen. I'm feeling stronger. And, hey! I need a belt for my "fat days" jeans.

I was, in fact, wearing them yesterday with an old baseball jersey of mine. Not glamourous, but I was comfortable.

So when a mom from the nursery school saw me at the library and asked, "When are you due?" I sucked in my breath and managed a lighthearted, "Two-and-a half years ago." She mutters an apology and said that it must have been what I was wearing that day. Sure.

I picked up my kids from school and this other mom I know said, "Whoa! Are you pregnant with your fourth?" Holy Mary, full of grace; don't let me punch her in the face. "No," I said rather curtly.

But then she went on. "How many kids do you have?"

"Three."

"Then you're pregnant with your fourth," she insisted.

"No, I'm not."

She breathes a sigh of frustration with me, "C'mon. What's after 3? Four! You're pregnant with your fourth!"

Now it was my turn to roll my eyes and I said, slowly (hoping she'd understand what I was saying...in English), "I'm not pregnant with my fourth because I. Am. Not. Pregnant."

And at that, she paused, wide-mouthed, quickly shut her big pie-hole and muttered, "Sorry" as she pushed her stroller away.

I was - and still am - so depressed and discouraged. I want to dust off my old Exploited records and wallow in anger. If only I had a record player.

So let this be a lesson to you all. NEVER ask a woman if she's pregnant. It is soooo rude. And, frankly, it's none of your effing business.

Arrrgh.

And here's an article telling me I'm doubly cursed. All those pastizzi slowed down my metabolism to a crawl when I hit 35.